


The Bro Code Does Not Apply (Only Apparently It Does)

by silverlining99



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: M/M, Multi, Tentacles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-15
Updated: 2010-09-15
Packaged: 2017-10-29 17:07:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/322174
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silverlining99/pseuds/silverlining99
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>McCoy has a problem. Jim helps him fix it. That's what bros do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bro Code Does Not Apply (Only Apparently It Does)

**Author's Note:**

> Upon my stumbling into the...THING that is tentacle fic, I got goaded into writing something about McCoy not being able to come unless tentacles were involves. This...happened.

It's not the first time McCoy has sworn up and down that he is never again drinking with Jim.

It's the first time he's really and truly meant it, though.

Never. Again.

Ever.

Goddamn it.

Because the only thing he can conclude, after all is said and done, is that two of the most formative experiences of his life so far can only be described as complete, unmitigated, idiotic, disastrous, drunken _accidents_. They led in turn to a third formative experience, which would most accurately be described as less of an accident, and more an instance -- yet _another_ instance -- of Jim Kirk _happening_ to him in unpredictable, irrevocable ways.

Fuck his entire fucking life.

The first accident has the dubious honor of being one of those things that the less thought about, the better, while simultaneously and systematically destroying his sanity if he doesn't give in and think about it _sometimes_.

He's a man in his goddamn prime, is the problem, and pretty much starts crawling the walls if he doesn't have a fucking orgasm every once in awhile. And since these days his ability to come is exclusively reliant on combing the depths of his memory for any and all details of what he thinks of as That Godforsaken Night... well.

He relents. Occasionally. After really bad days.

And possibly sometimes after really good ones.

It's not the _exact_ spiral of ruin he expected to result from having made the dubious decision to become a posterchild for aviophobia in space, but what the hell. Instead of spending his first official voyage into the stars, two years into the Academy, caught in the clutches of debilitating and recurring panic attacks, he made it to Starbase 12 with a relatively solid grasp on the last shreds of his composure. He was pretty damn proud of himself for an hour or so.

And then he got drunk.

And then he met a fairly charming alien.

And now he's got way bigger problems than a little fear of flying.

 _Now_ , he can't get off without at least thinking of everything said charming alien had done to him.

With his fucking _tentacles_.

Sometimes McCoy hates the entire stinking universe for simply daring to exist.

The second accident is nothing special. It's routine, even commonplace.

He gets drunk with Jim during a blissfully quiet sojourn in uncharted space, opens his damned mouth, and screws himself six ways from Sunday.

It's just one giant clusterfuck of confession and the inevitable burn of regret approximately a second and a half after the words leave his mouth. Which is approximately _one_ second after Jim sits up, gapes at him like a fucking fish, and then falls off the couch to laugh on the floor, feet kicking up in the air as he clutches his stomach and howls.

"It's not fucking _funny_ ," McCoy snaps, when a minute passes and Jim still hasn't stop snorting with giggles. "Damn it, Jim, fuck off. Forget I said anything."

Jim sits up and fumbles on the table for the bottle of whiskey they've been hitting heavily. "I'm sorry," he says solemnly, with a perfectly straight face. "I shouldn't laugh. You're right. Tentacle fetishes are serious business."

"Ah, to hell with you." McCoy steals the bottle and downs a few more shots in a desperate effort to dull the pain. Or pass out. Whichever happens first is absolutely fine by him.

Jim unfortunately happens first. "Aww, don't be like that," he says plaintively, crawling back onto McCoy's couch and leaning across him, weight heavy against his chest, to get the bottle back. "Hey, so. We can figure this out! I think we should --" and the little shit starts laughing again "-- I think we should start by talking about how it made you _feel_ when you had tentacles in your --"

"Jim, I swear to you on everything that is holy in this world, if you ever breathe another word about this I will cut off your goddamn balls and sew them to the insides of your cheeks."

He steals the bottle away again.

His memory of the entire awful night ends pretty much at that point. A mercy, he lets himself think. Jim doesn't bring it up again, like he's actually figured out, for once in his life, how to be _respectful_ of a very sensitive subject.

McCoy should have known better. Six weeks later, Jim just does something a million times worse.

 

 

Only Jim Kirk, McCoy thinks bitterly, slumped against the wall of a ratty bar, could manage to wrangle last minute authorization for ship-wide shore leave on Risa, a planet renowned for offering all the polished, shiny, sensual amenities anyone could ask for, and then proceed to find the seedy underbelly and drag McCoy into it.

And now he's over in a corner, gesturing madly in a way that makes McCoy incredibly nervous as he talks excitedly to someone McCoy has no trouble identifying as a Htapothi.

The guy on Starbase 12 had been a Htapothi.

It all leaves McCoy with a sick, sneaking suspicion that Jim has taken it upon himself to play wingman between him and an alien who may look reassuringly human...ish above the neck, but who McCoy knows full well is a teeming knot of dozens of appendages from that point down. From a medical standpoint, he still marvels at the structural genius of the species, with only the most basic of skeletal structuring in place to support a hell of a lot of...flesh.

Flesh that starbursts out into a multitude of tentacles sprouting from center mass like a raging case on skin tags that have mutated uncontrollably. There are things equivalent to arms and legs in there somewhere, four thick trunks with boney interiors that end in meaty, three-pronged pincers instead of simply tapering down to nothing like the rest. The rest being, whips of muscle and nerve that are generally keep wrapped around the core in a vaguely humanoid shape that gets bundled into clothing, but when allowed to unfurl are more like...

Like a goddamn Koosh ball gone horribly wrong. Just remembering the bulky weight of his past companion swarming over him, the dizzying rush of trying to keep an eye on all the impossibly varied appendages, the sensation of one of its four self-fucking-lubricating reproductive....extensions slithering its way inside of him, makes McCoy swallow hard and consider getting up and leaving Jim to his own damn meddlesome devices.

He stays where he is. Jesus, but he has seriously gone sick in the head, he thinks. It might be time to seek help.

When Jim finally pats his new friend, or whatever, on the shoulder-like-area and heads back to McCoy, he's smiling in a way that makes McCoy's blood run cold and hot all at once. "Good news!" Jim announces cheerfully. "He's totally down. And he likes the look of you, so he even gave me a discount. Isn't that awesome?"

Jim's words sink in slowly until comprehension hits McCoy at warp speed and he spits out the mouthful of his drink he's just taken. "Jim. Tell me you don't mean what I think you mean."

Jim pauses. "Uh," he says, and scratches his head. "I don't really see where there's a lot of ambiguity in what I just --"

"What the fuck are you thinking? I swear to fucking god, Jim, this takes the goddamn cake. How dare you --"

"What? You said I could!" Jim yelps, his eyes wide and his hand flying up to pry McCoy's fingers from their sudden grip on his ear. "You totally fucking said, 'christ, at this point if I had the nerve or know-how I'd _pay_ someone with the right anatomy to take care of it.' Exact words and everything!"

"I said no such thing and where in there do you find _permission_ , anyway!"

"You did so, you lying fucking liar -- ow, ow, _ow_ , let go!" Jim insists, indignant. "And, well....I have the nerve and the know-how! Geez, Bones, I thought you'd _appreciate_ a helping hand from a concerned friend."

"You thought I'd appreciate you _hiring_ me a _hooker_? On _sale_? Are you _insane_? He could be a psychopath!"

Jim shakes his head rapidly. "No way, he's totally cool. He's registered! Besides, I would never let anything happen to you, you know that."

McCoy is nowhere near drunk enough for this shit. There might not actually be enough alcohol on the _planet_ for this shit. "How _exactly_ ," he grinds out, "were you planning to being able to have any idea if things have gone sideways into hell?"

"Oh," Jim says, and blinks guilelessly. "Did I forget to mention? I want to be there. And....watch. Please?"

Oh, hell no.

That's what McCoy thinks, anyway.

Ten minutes later, however, he finds himself in a private room with Jim and the Htapothi, who introduced himself as Tinten as he snaked a slim tentacle out from under his long leather duster and slid it across McCoy's ass.

That was the moment, McCoy figures later, that right there was the moment he was doomed.

That, or the day he met Jim Kirk.

He really just can't fucking decide.

 

 

Strangely, the door closing and securing behind them all soothes McCoy's nerves. He is, he thinks with a detachment that might actually be hysteria numbed by disbelief, in a room with his best friend and a tentacled prostitute, stripping off his clothes with perfunctory speed.

It's as good as a done deal. Still, he doesn't really look at Jim as he goes to crawl onto the bed, and he sure as hell doesn't let himself look at Tinten, shrugging out of his duster and letting everything unwind. His cock is rock-hard and throbbing dangerously, and he'll be damned if he comes already just from the _thought_ of what's about to happen.

McCoy crouches low and rests his forehead on his arms, swallows down indignity and pride and shoves his ass in the air. The bed dips as Tinten climbs on, and then there's a warm, restless heat cloaking his back, ebbing and flowing until he's practically fucking _nestled_ into a shallow divot of space. Two tendrils, half as thick as his wrists, wind their way down his arms and tug with seemingly impossibly strength, forcing him to shift and adjust so they can wiggle further along and encircle the entire length like ornamental cuffs.

Jewelry that happens to be _alive_. Christ, and he used to fancy himself a simple country doctor. McCoy groans at flickers of sensation all along his body, at the way Tinten's 'arms' wrap around his middle to pluck at his nipples with doughy pincers. "How would you like this to go?" Tinten asks solicitously. "I excel at being tender if --"

"Hard," McCoy blurts. "I -- the other of your kind I knew. He fucked me hard. Do that."

Without warning Tinten rolls, drags McCoy along to lie atop him on his back. For a second his legs flail, abruptly unanchored, and McCoys feels almost like a dead bug. Then more tentacles twist around his thighs, twining around to draw them up and back like a goddamn winch until they're pressed tight to McCoy's chest, splayed apart. The narrower ropes of pulsing muscle around his wrists wing out, spreading McCoy like a sacrifice in every possible way. "Very well. And I thought your friend might enjoy a good view as well," Tinten murmurs in McCoy's ear. "He's paying, after all."

McCoy can only grunt his assent as what feels like a stylus-thin tentacle glides across the taut muscle of one of his glutes and steals between his legs, past his balls, to curl loosely around the base of his cock. As it slithers up it coils closely enough to swallow him backwards, from root to glans, then tightens the pressure in a slow squeeze that chokes the breath out of McCoy as surely as it chokes off any freedom to come.

He lifts his head weakly and sees Jim in a blur between his unrestrained calves, all red face and blue eyes, staring raptly. Then his gaze shifts and he stares in silent shock as the tapered, agile tip of the tentacle engulfing his entire cock teases circles around the head before sliding along his slit....and then into it.

McCoy wouldn't suspect the sound he hears of being human, if he weren't feeling it rip out of his own damn chest. "Fuck!" he snarls, bucking hard until Tinten tightens his hold everywhere and secures him even closer. "Jesus motherfucking Christ, I need to -- I --"

"Shhh," Tinten soothes. McCoy isn't even sure what he's feeling but it's _something_ , something inside at the same time as the pressure surrounding his cock pulses and slides, friction running in circles and squeezing him gently.

Something new brushes his ass, a thick, slippery stroke right across his hole, tickling along his perineum, prodding at his balls and then sliding back to begin worming in slowly. It feels to McCoy like it's pushing into him in gentle heaves, steady as the crash of waves, rubbing against the rim and always going further, never withdrawing. He bites his lips and lets the increasing girth stretch him more with each push deeper into his body, struggles to relax despite the ache in his cock, the overwhelming, futile desire to come right that second. "Please," he hears himself gasp. "Please.... _more_."

Another surging pulse finally sets him burning, presses him open beyond what his body feels ready for. This time the tentacle withdraws a fraction of an inch, only to shove deeper still, stretching him wider and fucking him all at once. Tinten brushes his lips against McCoy's neck, licks away the sweat that's broken out. "You can have another whenever you like," he says politely. "As many as you can take."

McCoy's not sure he manages to say "now, damn it," out loud instead of chanting it inside his head, until another tentacle smooths a path across his ass and begins working its way in. The deeper one keeps pumping, dragging the new one along with each inward thrust. McCoy drops his head back and breathes raggedly as the real onslaught begins, one tentacle withdrawing as the other presses in, everything just a slickly coordinated assault on his ass.

Exactly like he wanted. He moves as much as he can, writhes in tiny little jerks that only make Tinten squeeze him closer and fuck him that much harder, make him step up the rhythmic palpation around his entire cock. "Ah, _fuck_ ," he groans. His body is screaming for release he just can't get and he can't take anymore, he can't --

A hand, a palpably human hand, touches one of his tightly curled feet. McCoy blinks his eyes open and peers hazily at Jim, who's suddenly standing at the end of the bed and palming his crotch with his free hand. "Bones," he says hoarsely. "Bones, can I -- I want to -- _fuck_ , I want to fuck you, too, can I --"

Tinten whispers in McCoy's ear, a murmur of encouragement with a promise laced in. "Yes," McCoy gets out. "Jim, yes, come on, do it --"

Jim is out of his clothes and on the bed in a flash, hands stroking along what bits of skin he can reach, along McCoy's hips and ass. The tentacles inside McCoy ease back and the stretch alleviates -- only to explode again as Jim sinks his entire cock in with one deep plunge, right alongside the two writhing tentacles. "Oh my god," Jim breathes. McCoy barely registers it over his own gasps for air, for words, for _something_ , as Jim begins pistoning into him, hips snapping and slapping against his ass.

McCoy can't tell where Jim ends and tentacles begin. He can't pick apart the types of flesh surging in, or make sense of the battering against his prostate. He doesn't care.

He's too far gone to even remember what caring is, for Christ's sake.

Jim suddenly slams in and holds there, his weight dropping heavily between McCoy's thighs and pressing against his tortured cock. McCoy can tell from his wide, startled eyes that Tinten is letting him in on the idea, and he can't help but picture still more tentacles teasing at Jim's ass. He waits, breath held, for Jim to freak out or something.

Jim just blinks, and bites his lip, and suddenly hisses, "yeaaaaah, do it." His smile is unexpected and blinding when it flashes. "Good for the goose, am I right?"

Tinten releases McCoy's cock at the same time as Jim's mouth falls open in a wide 'O' of surprise, and McCoy comes hard on the knowledge that there is justice in the universe after all.

At the very least, now Jim knows how it feels.


End file.
